Post by Bloodeye the Bai Ze on Dec 24, 2012 15:01:27 GMT -5
December 26th: 1300 Hours: The Pentagon:
A thick mustache wriggled irritably on the face of the Director of Metaphysical and Supernatural Occasions. His heavy set brow hung low as he skimmed over the file in his hand, while his other drummed against his temple with the voracity of a hummingbird's wingbeat.
"Sir?" said a young man as he went through the janitor's closet door near the cafeteria and into the Director's office. "Are you still going over that report? It was two days ago."
"Correction: it was a day and a night ago." said the bristled gentleman as he set down the file. "I can't believe we came that close."
"Yeah... it was a good thing that Bl-" he began to say before being cut off my a stern grunt. "I mean... Subject B-1... was there to save the day."
"Save the day?! SAVE THE DAY?!?!" the Director spat. "That show of force could have very well effected the Earth's electromagnetic field! In fact, I'm pretty sure it did! We're just lucky a few weather satellites all of a sudden picked up the Playboy channel! We could have had a full global catastrophe! Power would have gone out all over the globe. Computer systems would become inoperable. And don't even get me started on the Bigfoot migrations!"
"Yes well... still... he did save Christmas and all."
"Tell that to everyone who doesn't celebrate Christmas." the Director snorted. He folded his hands across his knee. "Did we get any word from the Canadians yet? They were first on the scene."
"Apparently no one remembers."
"Mind wipe?"
"Party at Matteo's."
"Goddamnit. That's worse then a mind wipe. That's a mind wipe and a kidney removal."
"Yes sir."
"The Russians?"
"We just got reports that half the country is suffering from alcohol poisoning. They'll probably get back to us in a week."
"Damn."
The Director rubbed his fingers against his furrowed and very bushy brow.
"Jim," he said as he pulled out a small pyramid type device and set it on the table. He pushed the top, which lit up and let out a low frequency whine. "I know you wrote this report in regards to keeping the integrity and national security of the United States in mind. Not that it matters too much, since this file will just be shelved in a warehouse right next to the Ark of the Covenant."
"Arks, sir."
"Just because we haven't figured out which one in there is the real thing, doesn't mean that they all are the Ark of the Covenant. Besides... that's hardly the point right now. I want to know the truth, Jim. What happened up there on that night? What really happened?"
The younger man took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"Well... it kinda... happened like this."
--------------------------------------------------
December 24th: 1500 Hours: North Pole:
"Alright everyone! We need to hurry up! Get that sleigh all filled up or I'll break your kneecaps!"
Santa Claus bellowed through a quick swig of scotch at his elves as he sat idly by while they filled the sleigh. He grumbled under his breath, something about minorities and a firing squad.
Sure, it wasn't the prettiest picture to have mounted on some collector Christmas plates. But it was all the old toymaker could do anymore. The past century had been a killer on the old man. In the 19th Century, he was right there with his elves, laughing and smiling, full of joy that he'd be making those rounds and giving the children of the world a reason to smile in a time when amputation was considered a field of medicine rather than a last resort.
But now? It was all video games and Pokemon and Kindles. What happened to the days when a wooden toy, made with love and care, was considered a treasured gift? Now, 75% of his list was "Halo 4" and he had to have his elves remind him constantly what the fuck that was.
It was all certainly enough to make the man drink. Hell, he didn't even go through his naughty or nice list anymore. There wasn't enough coal in the Appalachians to fill that demand.
Of course, the elves did all the work without much of a complaint. Not that they didn't dislike his constant whiskey drinking, but he did pay for their college educations and supported their doctorates. They kinda owed him.
"Sweetie... uh... are you ready to go?" A concerned Mrs. Claus said as she peaked around the corner into the shop. She was ready to duck flying bottle of scotch at any moment.
"Damn woman!" Santa exclaimed while keeping hold of his liquor. "I'm ready when I'm damn well ready! I'm motherfuckin' Santa Claus! MOTHERFUCKIN' SANTA CLAUS!!!"
"I know but... you've been drinking again. Last time you did this on Christmas Eve-"
"Hey! Okay... so... I was flying erratic. I'll man up to it. But that goddamn F-18 didn't use his turn signals! Not my fault he crashed and burned!" Santa sat himself back down on an old toy chest. "I got his kid a Furbee. He'll forgive me."
"Look. Just get some coffee before you go-"
The doorbell rang. Then it rang again.
Mr. and Mrs Claus traded bewildered looks between each other.
"We have a doorbell?" Santa asked with a twisted expression on his face.
"Yes. You installed it last year." his wife remarked.
"The hell?! We live at the North Pole! Was I high or something?"
Mrs. Claus answered only with a "yeah sorta" wave of her hand.
"Fine. Go answer it will you." Mrs. Claus exited with a huff to go to the front door, only to hear behind her "And if it's fuckin' Jehovah's Witnesses, slam the door in their face!"
"You don't have to tell me twice!" Mrs. Claus called back as she grabbed the old brass door handle.
"Guten Tag, Frau Claus." Came a cheery voice as she opened the door.
Santa took another swig of his whiskey before spewing back out at the sound of his wife screaming.
"What the hell was that?!" he bellowed before noticing one of his elves stumbling into his workshop, clutching at where one of his arms would have been.
"Sir, I tried to stop them... but they..." The elf gasped as Santa rushed over and cradled the dying creature in his arms.
"It'll be okay Twizzle." Santa said reassuringly. "It'll be okay. We'll have you patched up and making RC cars in no time."
"I know when it's my time, sir." The elf wheezed. A trail of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth.
"No Twizzle!" Santa cried. "Not this way!"
"Sir... they... they are.... they are nin-" The elf was suddenly silenced by a shuriken planting itself deep in his forehead.
Santa reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone as a menagerie of dark figures drifted into his shop. He looked at the one number on his contact menu and grimaced.
"It must be done" he whispered to no one. But before he could hit the call button, a blade was at his throat. Santa stared at the sharp instrument and back into the blue eyes of it's wielder.
"Go ahead," The deeply accented voice chided. A flash of white teeth spread across the face. "Make ze call."
A thick mustache wriggled irritably on the face of the Director of Metaphysical and Supernatural Occasions. His heavy set brow hung low as he skimmed over the file in his hand, while his other drummed against his temple with the voracity of a hummingbird's wingbeat.
"Sir?" said a young man as he went through the janitor's closet door near the cafeteria and into the Director's office. "Are you still going over that report? It was two days ago."
"Correction: it was a day and a night ago." said the bristled gentleman as he set down the file. "I can't believe we came that close."
"Yeah... it was a good thing that Bl-" he began to say before being cut off my a stern grunt. "I mean... Subject B-1... was there to save the day."
"Save the day?! SAVE THE DAY?!?!" the Director spat. "That show of force could have very well effected the Earth's electromagnetic field! In fact, I'm pretty sure it did! We're just lucky a few weather satellites all of a sudden picked up the Playboy channel! We could have had a full global catastrophe! Power would have gone out all over the globe. Computer systems would become inoperable. And don't even get me started on the Bigfoot migrations!"
"Yes well... still... he did save Christmas and all."
"Tell that to everyone who doesn't celebrate Christmas." the Director snorted. He folded his hands across his knee. "Did we get any word from the Canadians yet? They were first on the scene."
"Apparently no one remembers."
"Mind wipe?"
"Party at Matteo's."
"Goddamnit. That's worse then a mind wipe. That's a mind wipe and a kidney removal."
"Yes sir."
"The Russians?"
"We just got reports that half the country is suffering from alcohol poisoning. They'll probably get back to us in a week."
"Damn."
The Director rubbed his fingers against his furrowed and very bushy brow.
"Jim," he said as he pulled out a small pyramid type device and set it on the table. He pushed the top, which lit up and let out a low frequency whine. "I know you wrote this report in regards to keeping the integrity and national security of the United States in mind. Not that it matters too much, since this file will just be shelved in a warehouse right next to the Ark of the Covenant."
"Arks, sir."
"Just because we haven't figured out which one in there is the real thing, doesn't mean that they all are the Ark of the Covenant. Besides... that's hardly the point right now. I want to know the truth, Jim. What happened up there on that night? What really happened?"
The younger man took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"Well... it kinda... happened like this."
--------------------------------------------------
December 24th: 1500 Hours: North Pole:
"Alright everyone! We need to hurry up! Get that sleigh all filled up or I'll break your kneecaps!"
Santa Claus bellowed through a quick swig of scotch at his elves as he sat idly by while they filled the sleigh. He grumbled under his breath, something about minorities and a firing squad.
Sure, it wasn't the prettiest picture to have mounted on some collector Christmas plates. But it was all the old toymaker could do anymore. The past century had been a killer on the old man. In the 19th Century, he was right there with his elves, laughing and smiling, full of joy that he'd be making those rounds and giving the children of the world a reason to smile in a time when amputation was considered a field of medicine rather than a last resort.
But now? It was all video games and Pokemon and Kindles. What happened to the days when a wooden toy, made with love and care, was considered a treasured gift? Now, 75% of his list was "Halo 4" and he had to have his elves remind him constantly what the fuck that was.
It was all certainly enough to make the man drink. Hell, he didn't even go through his naughty or nice list anymore. There wasn't enough coal in the Appalachians to fill that demand.
Of course, the elves did all the work without much of a complaint. Not that they didn't dislike his constant whiskey drinking, but he did pay for their college educations and supported their doctorates. They kinda owed him.
"Sweetie... uh... are you ready to go?" A concerned Mrs. Claus said as she peaked around the corner into the shop. She was ready to duck flying bottle of scotch at any moment.
"Damn woman!" Santa exclaimed while keeping hold of his liquor. "I'm ready when I'm damn well ready! I'm motherfuckin' Santa Claus! MOTHERFUCKIN' SANTA CLAUS!!!"
"I know but... you've been drinking again. Last time you did this on Christmas Eve-"
"Hey! Okay... so... I was flying erratic. I'll man up to it. But that goddamn F-18 didn't use his turn signals! Not my fault he crashed and burned!" Santa sat himself back down on an old toy chest. "I got his kid a Furbee. He'll forgive me."
"Look. Just get some coffee before you go-"
The doorbell rang. Then it rang again.
Mr. and Mrs Claus traded bewildered looks between each other.
"We have a doorbell?" Santa asked with a twisted expression on his face.
"Yes. You installed it last year." his wife remarked.
"The hell?! We live at the North Pole! Was I high or something?"
Mrs. Claus answered only with a "yeah sorta" wave of her hand.
"Fine. Go answer it will you." Mrs. Claus exited with a huff to go to the front door, only to hear behind her "And if it's fuckin' Jehovah's Witnesses, slam the door in their face!"
"You don't have to tell me twice!" Mrs. Claus called back as she grabbed the old brass door handle.
"Guten Tag, Frau Claus." Came a cheery voice as she opened the door.
Santa took another swig of his whiskey before spewing back out at the sound of his wife screaming.
"What the hell was that?!" he bellowed before noticing one of his elves stumbling into his workshop, clutching at where one of his arms would have been.
"Sir, I tried to stop them... but they..." The elf gasped as Santa rushed over and cradled the dying creature in his arms.
"It'll be okay Twizzle." Santa said reassuringly. "It'll be okay. We'll have you patched up and making RC cars in no time."
"I know when it's my time, sir." The elf wheezed. A trail of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth.
"No Twizzle!" Santa cried. "Not this way!"
"Sir... they... they are.... they are nin-" The elf was suddenly silenced by a shuriken planting itself deep in his forehead.
Santa reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone as a menagerie of dark figures drifted into his shop. He looked at the one number on his contact menu and grimaced.
"It must be done" he whispered to no one. But before he could hit the call button, a blade was at his throat. Santa stared at the sharp instrument and back into the blue eyes of it's wielder.
"Go ahead," The deeply accented voice chided. A flash of white teeth spread across the face. "Make ze call."
